


The Last Person You'd Ever Suspect

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, HLV AU, Sherlolly - Freeform, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic that answers the burning question: what if John was the one who shot Sherlock instead of Mary?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Turn Around And Go

 

Sherlock was more than shocked when the person holding the gun on Magnussen turned to face him. He hadn’t been this off-kilter, feeling as if the entire universe had turned upside down and sideways, since the moment John had stepped into the pool when Sherlock had been expecting Moriarty.  
  
And here John was again, making his heart constrict painfully, proving yet again that for all his deductive genius, Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a human being like anyone else: that he, too, made mistakes.

“John,” he said, staring at his best friend through disbelieving eyes. _No, not John..._

“Sherlock,” the other man acknowledged, still holding his gun to Magnussen’s head. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to just…turn around, walk out, pretend you never saw me here?”

Sherlock studied his friend carefully. John wore a black stocking-cap on his head; black leather gloves concealed his hands, and he wore a black military-style vest over black shirt and trousers. The perfect outfit for carrying out an assassination. “Now I understand why you couldn't come with me tonight,” he murmured with a small shake of his head. Trying to lighten the mood just a touch, he added, “What’s with the special services get-up? I thought you were a doctor.”

“I had bad days,” John reminded him, a quirk of the lips showing he appreciated the other man’s attempt at humor. His expression hardened, however, as Magnussen began lowering his hands from his head while John’s attention was (apparently) distracted. “Don’t,” he said in clipped tones; Magnussen hurriedly replaced his hands on his head. John swung the gun around to Sherlock. “And you. Please, Sherlock. Do what I said - turn around, leave, forget you saw me.”  
  
“I can’t do that, John,” Sherlock replied, making sure to maintain eye contact as he tried to simultaneously talk John down and figure out what had driven him to this extreme. “You know that. Even if you tell me why you’re doing this.”

The only logical explanation was that John was desperate to save someone from Magnussen, and Sherlock had a good idea as to who that someone might be. What he needed to know was what secret the blackmailer was holding over Mary’s head that was worth his cold-blooded execution by her husband - only then could he decide whether or not to take John’s advice and just walk away. Not that John hadn’t killed since being invalided out of the army, but that had been under immediate threat, or at least what he’d believed to be immediate threat.

Although others might argue that John’s shooting of Jeff Hope was just as much an execution as this would be, Sherlock knew it was fundamentally different. He wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- just let it go. “Whatever he’s got on…whoever it is you’re protecting,” he amended at the last moment, on the off-chance that he was wrong, “let me help.” He shifted the weight on one foot, preparing to step forward.

John’s face tightened with some unreadable mixture of emotions - anger, regret, resolve?  “Sherlock,” he warned, his voice quiet - and deadly. “If you take one more step, I swear I will kill you.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “No you won’t, John. You’re my best friend, remember?”

As he started to lift his foot off the floor, he had exactly a fragment of a second to recognize what a terrible mistake he’d made - and then John pulled the trigger.

Sherlock stared down at his body in shock as a hole appeared in the lower quadrant of his chest, then back at John as blood began pouring from the wound.

“Oh Sherlock,” the other man said, sounding choked up and regretful. “I’m, God, I’m so sorry. Truly I am.”

“John?” Sherlock croaked disbelievingly, as his friend turned the gun to Magnussen. Then darkness overtook him, and he saw no more outside the realm of his mind palace. The next voice he heard was that of his internal Molly Hooper, and it was due to her efforts that he survived long enough for the ambulance to arrive.

The ambulance that had been summoned by John Watson before he left the same way he’d come - after hesitating, then with a curse striking Magnussen unconscious with the butt of his pistol.

Killing that piece of human garbage would have to wait.


	2. Don't Tell Mary

_St. Bart’s Hospital, later that night…_  
  
Instruments beeping. Lights blurring his vision - no, not the lights, the pain, the drugs, the...being shot, had he been shot? As the surgeon - yes a surgeon, no difficult deduction, that - leaned over him to place a mask over his face ( _anesthesiologist, then, not surgeon, always miss something_ ), Sherlock murmured one word: “John.”

**oOo**

“John, I just heard!” Mary Watson came rushing into the corridor, blue eyes wide with concern. “How is he?” She laid a hand on her husband’s as she reached his side.

“He’s in surgery now,” John replied wearily. He hated every minute of this, of lying to Mary even by omission, but he had made a private vow to protect her no matter what the cost, once he’d accidentally learned about her dangerous past - and it was a vow he would never break. Not even for Sherlock, his best friend. The man he’d shot… “I think I’m in trouble…”

Mary gave him a confused look, and he managed to backtrack - God, he was a wreck, how could he have slipped up like that? “The last thing he said before he went under was my name,” he explained. Mary gave him a smile and that’s when the dam broke.

A choked sob escaped him, then another, and then Mary’s arms were wrapped around him, and she was making comforting, shushing noises as he rested his head on her shoulder and held her as if she were the only thing keeping him from sinking into the depths of the Earth. And she was; he would do anything to protect her, to protect their unborn child, to keep Magnussen from exploiting her past in order to threaten her into doing...whatever it was he wanted her to do.

He had his suspicions, suspicions that involved both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, but he couldn’t tell anyone of those suspicions. Not without revealing Mary’s secret past as a CIA assassin. He’d discovered that secret while investigating the telegram Sherlock had read out at their wedding breakfast, the one simply signed ‘CAM’. Mary had laughed it off as a university mate trying to be funny, but John had seen the look on her face as she read it over in their hotel room, had watched her start to crumple it up before she noticed him watching her.

He might not be Sherlock Holmes, but he knew, with a soldier’s instincts, when someone he loved was being threatened. Seeing Janine in Sherlock’s flat earlier in the day, remembering that his wife’s maid of honor had worked for Charles Augustus Magnussen the newspaper magnate, discovering that Sherlock was using her in order to investigate ‘CAM’s’ offices - that had been enough. Threat recognized, then neutralized.

Only he hadn’t been fast enough; he was supposed to have been there well before Sherlock, there and gone with Magnussen eliminated and Sherlock faced with a literal dead end and Mary and the baby - and Sherlock and Mycroft and Lady Smallwood and anyone else the blackmailer had under his grimy thumb - safe.

Eventually his violent, guilt-wracked sobs slowed and stopped; eventually Mary was able to coax him into the surgery waiting room, where they joined Mycroft and Molly Hooper and Sherlock’s parents, a few hours later. Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade joined them for a time, as did Phillip Anderson, Angelo, and, a bit unbelievably, Sally Donovan and DI Dimmock. Neither of them were fans of the consulting detective, but John saw the real concern and sympathy in their eyes as they spoke quietly to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

Two minutes before the surgeon arrived to announce that Sherlock, in spite of flatlining on the operating table, was alive and in recovery, Mycroft’s PA brought them the same news, a brilliant smile on her face as she spoke. It was the most emotion John had ever seen her exhibit, in their few interactions, and he was mildly surprised to discover she might actually be human.

After the family members had each been allowed to visit with him - very briefly - John convinced Mary to go home, that he just wanted to be alone for a bit longer. She gave him a very penetrating look, but eventually nodded, hugged him, told him she loved and that she’d see him at home.

He slipped into Sherlock’s room while Mycroft and his parents were conferring with the doctors and Anthea - or whatever the hell her real name was - was busy again with her Blackberry. He studied the drip and the sleeping figure, pushing back the guilt that threatened once again to overwhelm him - he had to make Sherlock understand.

**oOo**

“Sherlock…Sherlock, can you hear me?” John’s voice faded in and out as Sherlock tried his best to focus. He opened bleary eyes; John’s face refused to remain still, reeling about as if the world were tilting on its axis. If John needed him, then of course he would do anything his friend…then memory returned and the small, terrified child inside Sherlock Holmes - little William Holmes, lonely and bullied by smaller minds - shrank back with a keen of sorrow.  
  
“Sherlock…listen, you have to listen - Sherlock, you can’t tell Mary it was me, do you hear me? Mary can never know…” John’s voice and face both faded as unconsciousness once again claimed Sherlock Holmes.

_Several days later…_

John rolled his eyes at the sight of the headlines on the tabloids at the newsstand. Janine really was a piece of work, but who could blame her? Sherlock _had_ used her to get into her bosses’ office. And although other men might not be annoyed at being christened a deerstalker-hatted sex god, he knew it would piss Sherlock off no end. Especially, he thought with a smirk, once the love letters and not-so-subtle email invitations starting flooding his inbox.

His mood darkened as he approached the hospital. Magnussen had said nothing about his shooter, just as John had gambled. No, he had something on him now and was no doubt saving it for bigger game. As for why he was continuing to hold off - well, John suspected he was waiting for Sherlock to fully recover from his shooting before he made his move.

As long as Mary remained blissfully ignorant of the fact that John knew her secret, he could live with the uncertainty. No matter what, Mary had to remain safe.

He bumped into Molly Hooper in the hallway, just leaving Sherlock’s room. “Oh, hello John,” she said with an awkward smile. “Seen the tabs, have you? I suppose that’s what he gets for faking an engagement with a woman who works for a notorious blackmailer!”

John gaped at her; he’d had no idea that Molly knew - well, _any_ thing. Then again, she’d been a confidant for Sherlock in the past, why not now? He suppressed his flash of annoyance at being kept in the dark about her involvement yet again - who was he to cast stones? - but knew something of his feelings must have shown on his face, because Molly instantly looked contrite. “Sorry! No, John, I swear, I wasn’t in on it - he just told me now, when I went in to read him the riot act about lying to her. I mean, Janine told me first, she wanted to warn me off in case Sherlock tried to sweet-talk me into, well, anything…”

“It’s all right, Molly,” John reassured her with a small, pained smile. “We’re good, it’s all good.” He nodded at the door to Sherlock’s room. “Is he awake? Has he had too much, should I let him sleep, or…?”

“Oh no, he’s awake, or he was a minute ago,” she rushed to reassure him. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. And I’ve got to get back to work...give my love to Mary, will you?”

He promised her he would (why did she sound so nervous?), watched as she hurried away, then squared his shoulders and rapped lightly on the door. “Awake?” he asked as he pushed it open.

Sherlock was reclining against the hospital pillows, eyes trained on the door. “Come in, John,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

John sighed. “Yeah, I bet you have.” He closed the door behind him, taking up position at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. “I know you want answers.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock replied. “I already have answers. You did it to protect Mary - Magnussen has something on her. Something you discovered and have been working diligently to protect her from.”

“Yeah.” John’s shoulders slumped as he gripped the cool metal railing at the foot of the bed. “She can never know, Sherlock. You can’t tell her. Not for my sake - for hers. I don’t care about myself, but I need to keep her and the baby safe from that lunatic. So promise me you'll never tell her I was the one who shot you.”

A choked sound from behind him stopped the words in his throat; heart pounding, John slowly turned his head...and saw Mary standing by the far wall, hand pressed to her mouth and tears filling her eyes.

He closed his eyes, shook his head and said with great feeling: “Well, _shit_.”


	3. Everybody Knows

“Well isn’t this cosy,” Sherlock said with a bright smile as Mary shuffled forward to join her husband at the foot of the consulting detective’s hospital bed. “Sorry, John,” he added, the smile vanished like the sun behind the clouds. “But this really isn’t the sort of secret one should keep from one’s wife. Although you’ll be happy to know that I’ve informed Lestrade that I don’t know who shot me, even though I was clearly shot while facing my assailant. Traumatic amnesia, don’t you know.”

John lifted his lips in a parody of a smile. “Thanks,” he said flatly. “I guess.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together and looking first at John, then Mary. John was afraid to look at her, to see the terrible whiteness of her face, the anger that was sure to be rising over the shock of discovering that her husband had been the one to shoot Sherlock. His best friend. “So, Mary, obviously John knows something about your secret past, before you took on the identity of Mary Morstan, a stillborn infant whose death certificate I had Molly find for me.”

“There shouldn’t be...I made sure to delete…”

“Hard copy,” Sherlock reminded her as she floundered. “Computer records have all been changed, yes, but a simple trip to the hall of records got us access to the physical document. Sloppy work, that. Not sure your former employers - whoever they might be, although I’m guessing  _ not  _ medical professionals - would approve. But then, who looks at physical records these days? No one. No one but me,” he added through narrowed eyes. “So. What secret past are you hiding that’s worth John doing this to me?” He gestured toward his bandaged chest, the IV line in his arm swaying with the motion.

Mary shook her head. “Nothing,” she half-whispered, hands reaching out to clutch the metal railing at the foot of his bed. “Nothing.” She turned toward John, who still hadn’t spoken, waiting with a soldier’s stoicism for Sherlock to finish his grandstanding, for Mary to have her say. “John, I wish you’d come to me. We could have - when did you find out? What do you know?” she interrupted herself to ask, caution finally reasserting itself through the shock.

“Ever since that telegram from ‘CAM’,” he replied, finally allowing himself to look at his wife. The mother of his unborn child. The woman he would do anything - anything at all - to protect. “I did some research of my own, didn’t find any death certificate but I did find the grave. That was all I needed to know - that you’d taken on a new identity, and that Magnussen had found out somehow, and was threatening you. Or was going to threaten you - and needed to be stopped.”

He said nothing about the friend in military intelligence he’d contacted, the one whose life he’d saved and who’d promised him a favor, any time, no questions asked. He said nothing about the information that a woman with the initials A.G.R.A. had worked for the CIA before becoming disillusioned and going freelance...and who had then vanished without a trace, presumed dead and buried in some unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.

That information was hers to share or not, and even though he owed Sherlock, oh about ten lifetime’s worth of favors now, that wasn’t one of them. No, that was up to his wife, whether to explain or not. He would admit to having gone after Magnussen and shot Sherlock in order to preserve those secrets, but he would take them to the grave - unless Mary allowed them to be shared.

“You know more than that, but don’t worry, I won’t pry,” Sherlock said, pretty much as John had expected him to. “None of my business - well, except for the part where you shot me.”

He said the words lightly, and John was startled to see a real smile on the other man’s face. “I told you, John, that no one outside of this room needs to know the truth - well, and Molly of course. I never could lie to her, which means sooner or later she’ll figure it out and I’d rather we told her ourselves. Later, though. After we’ve sorted through all...this.”

Mary seemed to take that as her signal to speak. “There are some...very bad people who would do very bad things to me and to anyone I love if they knew I was still alive,” she said after holding John’s gaze for a long moment. Reading him, gauging the truthfulness of the words he’d just spoken - and, much like Sherlock, probably seeing right through him and knowing he was holding information back. “People like Magnussen.” There was very real loathing in her voice as she said the blackmailer’s name. “People like him should be killed. That’s why there are people like me.”

She’d said it without saying it, revealed her past unflinchingly, while at the same time making a damn good point - that no matter how unsavory her past, she’d done it for a reason. A reason John could understand very, very well. He hesitated, then laid his hand over hers, ready to pull away if she flinched or gave some other sign his touch wasn’t welcome. 

He wasn’t surprised when she simply laid her other hand over his and managed a small, wan smile. “I agree,” he said. “Magnussen should be dead. And he would be, if I’d got my timing down.” Mary hadn’t been apologetic about her past, and he was damned if he was going to be apologetic about wanting to rid the word of that parasite. The only thing he needed to apologize for - well. He turned to look at Sherlock, willing the other man to read his very real regret as he spoke.

“Sherlock, I can’t begin to tell you how - ”

“Forgiven. Forgotten,” the other man interrupted him crisply. He smiled. “Traumatic amnesia, remember?” He shifted a bit on his bed. “Now. Let’s talk about Charles Augustus Magnussen - and how the three of us are going to deal with him, shall we?”

“Four of us,” Mary corrected him, something of her usual cheekiness in her voice and eyes. “Molly Hooper, remember? I don’t think we want to do this without her.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed with another smile - a soft, almost fond smile - curving his lips. “To be frank, there’s not much I want to do without Molly Hooper these days.” He frowned and gave a quick shake of his head, glancing at the IV drip. “Damned morphine,” he muttered, sounding almost embarrassed. “Can we just pretend I didn’t say anything so revoltingly sentimental?”

“Only if your promise to keep saying such revoltingly sentimental things to Molly,” Mary retorted, and John felt himself relaxing, finally. This was familiar territory - bantering with Sherlock, feeling secure in his wife’s love...not being threatened with either prison or the severing of a friendship that had come to mean the world to him.

If he had it to do over, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate to bring his concerns to both Mary and Sherlock. Playing the lone wolf had backfired terribly, and he knew he’d never do anything so idiotic ever again.


	4. Heart to Heart Times Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to mae-jones for giving this chapter a read through and reassuring me that it flowed and made sense. And thank YOU for reading this and commenting and following!

**John and Mary**

What with one thing or another - the shock of his confession and the emotional aftermath - it took Mary until they got home to ask John the one question he’d been certain would have been first out of her mouth. “John? Why did you do it? I mean, why shoot Sherlock and not Magnussen? You know Sherlock would never have turned you in, he said as much in the hospital.”

It took him a moment to answer, struggling to find the right words. “Part of it was because I wanted Magnussen to be afraid - if I was willing to kill my own best friend, then he’d know I was damn serious about killing him, and maybe he’d give me whatever evidence he had against you.”

“What was the other part?” Mary’s eyes remained steady on his as she asked the question, and she took hold of his hand as well. Keeping him close when by all rights she should have been pushing him away.

“Panic,” he admitted simply, hating to look so foolish in front of her, but knowing that nothing but the raw truth would do. “I wasn’t expecting Sherlock to show up; I was supposed to be there and gone before he tried his idiotic fake proposal on Janine.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes - those beautiful blue eyes that had so captivated him the first time he’d seen them at the clinic where they both now worked. “Right, because Janine would have been the one to let him into the office, so she could have testified that he was there.”

“Even without physical evidence tying him to the crime, he’d have been a proper suspect,”  John agreed heavily. “But I made sure to call 999 before I left. I didn’t just...leave him there.”

“And that saved his life,” Mary reminded him. Then, to pull back a bit from the heavy emotions, she asked something else that she’d been curious about. “How did you get in and out, anyway? Sherlock seemed so certain that there was no way to do it without getting caught or stopped.”

“Movie plot device that actually worked the way it was supposed to - went in through the ventilation system via the empty office space on the floor above,” John replied with a shrug. “I used an aerosol sedative to knock out Janine and the others, then tried to get Magnussen to hand over whatever documents he planned to blackmail you with.” He felt a bit redeemed by the admiration in his wife’s eyes at the confession. “Barring that…”

“You were going to kill him,” Mary said softly. Just like that, they were back to the unhappy heart of the matter. “To protect me. Oh, John…”

“It was a calculated risk - at least, that’s what I told myself,” he admitted tiredly. “With everyone unconscious there would have been no witnesses. And with no murder weapon to be found, Magnussen dead...the staff would be cleared and I’d been careful not to leave any evidence behind. But once Sherlock showed up…”

“Janine would be able to implicate him in the shooting, since she was the one to let him in,” Mary concluded, sighing as well.

“Yeah.” John let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Not my finest moment. Fine assassin I’d have made, panicking like that, nearly killing my best friend…I have utterly and completely cocked this up.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling utterly defeated.

Mary, who had started walking into the kitchen, turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest. “Yes, you have, love, but who’s to say I wouldn’t have made just as big a mess of things if I’d been the one to go after Magnussen? After all,” she added, her voice low, “you would never have gotten involved if I’d taken him out as soon as I realized he was going to try to blackmail me.”

“No,” John said fiercely, grasping his wife by the arms and meeting her eyes. “Never think that. It was the wrong way for me to try to handle things, on my own, and it would have been just as bad if it had been you. No, what’s done is done. We can’t wallow in ‘what ifs’ when we have ‘what next’ to worry about.”

Mary nodded. “And ‘what next’ involves working with Sherlock and Molly to try and take care of Magnussen once and for all,” she concluded grimly. “Whatever it takes, John, we’ll do it, the four of us.”

“The four of us,” he echoed as she tiptoed up to kiss him.

He just hoped he hadn’t already ruined their chances at taking Magnussen down.

**Sherlock and Molly**

“Knock, knock?” Molly said softly as she pushed open the door to Sherlock’s hospital room. He’d asked her to give it three hours, then come back once John and Mary had presumably gone, but if he was sleeping she wasn’t going to wake him.

“Come in, Molly, quit lurking in the doorway.” He sounded annoyed, but his voice was still weaker than normal.

“I wasn’t lurking,” she objected as she entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. “I was making sure you were awake, that’s all.”

“Hmm, yes, and hoping I wasn’t.”

“You’re recovering from a gunshot wound, Sherlock,” she chided gently as she took the seat near the head of his hospital bed. “All this extra excitement isn’t good for you, having me bring Mary here and then John when you should be resting.”

He reacted to the rebuke in her voice in typical Sherlock fashion, attempting to simply wave it off with a dismissive hand. The fact that it ended up flopping weakly back to the covers was something he clearly tried to ignore as he said, “Would you rather I’d done things on my own, rather than asking you for help? Would you rather I’d left the hospital, left everyone worrying and looking for me?”

She snorted. “I’d like to have seen you try. No, strike that: that’s the last thing I’d have liked to see you doing. But I still don’t know why you needed me to lie to John about Mary being here. Isn’t it time you told me what was going on, Sherlock?”

She could practically see the snarky retort he was itching to make, but much to her surprise, instead he actually answered her.

The answer, however, left her utterly speechless. “John’s the one that shot me.”

“John? No, Sherlock, that can’t be right - _John_ shot you?” Molly asked as soon as she found her voice again.

“Yes.” He quickly explained why - something about Mary having a secret past she was hiding from, a fake identity, other details Molly’s whirling mind couldn’t quite grasp - and finished by saying, “You need to know everything, Molly. Because I can’t ask you to help us unless you know it all. And you also have to know that I don’t blame him. I understand why he did it.”

“Well, I don’t know that I can be quite so forgiving,” Molly said fiercely. “Sherlock, you nearly _died_. What sort of a person deliberately shoots their own supposed best friend?”

“What sort of a person deliberately drugs their own supposed best friend out of boredom?” he countered. “Or deliberately exposes them to the effects of a powerful psychotropic drug, all in the name of a case?” Sherlock gestured weakly toward himself. “I did all that to John, Molly, and more. And he’s always forgiven me.”

“So, what, turnabout is fair play, is that it?” But Molly’s anger was ebbing, just the tiniest bit, as she realized that Sherlock was completely serious. That he actually _wasn’t_ angry at John for shooting him, crazy as that seemed. For a split second she considered that it might just be the effects of the morphine in his system, then discarded that as an excuse. No, this was just Sherlock being Sherlock.

“Tell me again, slowly please,” Molly said. “From the beginning and don’t even _think_ about being condescending about it.”

He rolled his eyes but did as she asked. An hour later, after only a few interruptions on her part, he concluded with, “And that’s when I asked you not to let John know Mary was here.”

“That...is a lot to take in,” Molly said after taking a moment to digest his words. “And I’m still not sure I entirely understand why he shot you instead of Magnussen, but if you’re willing to let it go, to not hate him for it...then I guess I can, too.”

Molly was puzzled at how relieved Sherlock looked; surely her thoughts on the matter were irrelevant?

He frowned and she knew he must have caught some of her confusion even through the morphine haze. “You’re doubting your importance to me again, Molly. Don’t.”

Instead of answering him, she gave him an awkward smile. “I should go. You need your rest.”

“What I need is you,” he countered, reaching out for her. She hesitated a moment before allowing him to lace their fingers together. “Why did it take me so long to realize how much I need you, Molly?”

She blushed and ducked her head. “Sherlock, it’s fine. You don’t have to try to sweet-talk me into helping you, or forgiving John, or, or anything.”

His grip tightened. “I’m not,” he said, waiting until she met his gaze before continuing to speak. “And no, it’s not just the morphine talking, I mean it. I need you, Molly, I need you in my life and I’m just sorry it took me being shot to fully understand how _much_ I need you.”

Well. This was unexpected. Molly honestly had no idea how to react, what to say. Luckily - or unluckily, she wasn’t sure which - Sherlock’s nurse chose that moment to bustle into the room to check his vitals. “Visiting hours are almost over,” the young man said, giving Molly a pointed look before turning his attention to his patient.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock,” Molly said, and ducked out before he could voice any objections.

Once in the hall with the door shut behind her, she took a moment to collect herself. Nothing that she’d heard today had been expected, from Janine’s tabloid claims - which Molly had known to be false even before Sherlock told her they were - to the consulting detective’s startling revelation, and everything that had happened in between.

Tea, she decided, was called for. Or possibly something stronger.

Yes, definitely something stronger. She headed home for a couple of glasses of wine and some much-needed alone-time to process everything that had happened - and formulate a plan to deal with it all.


	5. Impasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I let too many other things interrupt me. Hope you enjoy this little interlude with Molly and Sherlock, and thank you everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment. You guys make my day, every time! (And thank you as well to lilsherlockian1975 for assuring me this chapter fit in the story!)

Sherlock was finally getting out of the hospital, after meeting with Mycroft and his parents, who wanted to whisk him off to the family home in Surrey to recover. He only managed to avoid that horror by promising that not only would John and Mary be looking after him, but Molly as well.

“But John and Mary live in the suburbs now, don’t they?” his mother said, somewhat doubtfully. “And Molly’s flat is half-way across London, surely that’s too far for her to commute!”

His bland assertion that Molly had agreed to stay in John’s old bedroom until he was fully recovered earned him some very odd looks from his parents as well a patronizing smirk from Mycroft, but he ignored them all. 

As soon as they left, he took her aside and informed her of that fact. Luckily for him she didn’t seem inclined to protest. “You do need someone to keep an eye on you,” she agreed. Her tone of voice and expression were particularly unreadable that day, which irked him. As did her comment about how much Toby was going to enjoy exploring somewhere new while they stayed with him.

Even more irksome was the next visitor he had. Magnussen oozed into the hospital room after Molly left. Sherlock was able to ignore his veiled taunts only because he was focused on a new theory he had about the man - one that, unfortunately, was quickly proven wrong. The blackmailer’s glasses were not, after all acting as a portable Appledore; they held no built-in USB drive, no wireless device, were just an ordinary pair of glasses.

So much for his brilliant deductive skills.

He sulked about that for almost a week, until finally Molly gently reminded him that just because one theory had been dashed didn’t mean they couldn’t concoct others. And she used exactly that word - ‘concoct’, which made him give her a very odd look.

She blushed. He hadn’t seen her do that in ages, and discovered that he’d missed it. Now if only she would stammer a bit to remind him of how smitten she was with him, his ego would be fully restored...but no. No stammering for Molly and if he was completely honest with himself, he didn’t actually want her to go back to the way she’d once acted around him. Well, except he really did like the blushing.

He could imagine quite a few scenarios where she did more than blush, but all of them would have to wait until he’d fully recovered from his gunshot wound. The way things were going, said recovery would occur long before the conclusion of the Magnussen case, which unfortunately at the moment appeared to have stalled. The man himself had gone out of the country on ‘business’ and wasn’t scheduled to return to the UK until November, almost December, and there was literally nothing Sherlock could do until his return. When Mary and John scoped out Appledore, it was to find the security there even stronger than that on his office. 

Unless Mycroft was willing to to authorize a mobile strike by anti-terrorist forces - unlikely, considering his stance on Magnussen - there was nothing they could do until the man himself returned and they could deal with him in person.

Nothing, that is, except try to convince Molly that he was worth investing her heart in once again.

**oOo**

“John and Mary gone home?” Molly stuck her head around the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, where he was grudgingly settled for the night. He nodded, and she made as if to leave when he called her back. 

“Do you need something?” she asked as she moved hesitantly into the room. He wasn’t bedridden, although his movements were still halting and obviously laced with pain, but she was more than willing to grab him something to drink or a snack if he wanted either before she headed up to her temporary bedroom on the second floor.

He gave her a crooked smile and shifted a bit on the bed, as if he wanted to make room for her to sit next to him. That theory was proven when he gestured her forward, reaching up until she took his hand and allowed him to tug her closer. The bedside lamp was a low wattage bulb, but it was enough light for her to see the serious expression in his eyes as she perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.

“Haven’t we already had that discussion, Molly?” he said softly, leaving their fingers entwined. “And didn’t I already say what I needed was you?”

Molly had absolutely no idea what to say to that, even having known that, sooner or later, he would address the issue they’d left unresolved while he was in hospital. She squirmed a bit, shooting a longing glance toward the bedroom door. 

She should have known he’d misinterpret her discomfort. He stiffened and looked away, starting to withdraw his hand. “My apologies, I should have realized your feelings for me had changed. I mean, you were engaged, after all. I just assumed, once Meat Dagger was gone…”

“His name is Tom,” Molly corrected him, tightening her grasp and not allowing him to pull his hand away. “And yes, my feelings for you have changed, but Sherlock, not in the way you’re assuming.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a noisy huff. “It’s not that I don’t love you, Sherlock - because I do, very much - it’s that I’m nervous about this sudden change of heart you’ve had. People get emotional after nearly dying, say things they don’t mean, or only mean in the moment…”

“Not me,” he interrupted her with a scowl. “I know my own mind, Molly Hooper, and I know what I want and it’s the same thing I wanted since long before I was shot. Since my return from the dead, point of fact.” Without giving her time to process that remarkable statement, he added, “You do recall a certain conversation we had, that day you helped me with my cases? The conversation after we’d spoken to Mr. Howard Shilcott about the missing train car?”

Oh, she recalled it, all right, in excruciating detail. Every word, including the ones they’d parted with. “‘Not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths’,” she murmured aloud without meaning to.

“Maybe it’s just your type,” Sherlock shot back. She gasped and started a bit; there was no way he could have heard her that day - was there?   


He smirked. “My hearing’s rather sharp, Molly.”

“And my memory’s rather long,” she retorted, trying not to let him see how off-kilter this conversation was making her feel. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you sniped at me about my engagement ending when John and Mary brought you to my lab for a piss test.”

“Ah, yes, not one of my finer moments,” he admitted. “Then again, this entire case has been one long string of not-fine moments...and not just for me.” She knew he was thinking about John’s actions in defense of his wife, and wished again that things hadn’t degenerated to the state that he felt compelled to take such drastic actions.

She and John had talked a bit; he’d apologized to her, tried to explain, but in the end it all boiled down to the fact that he would do anything to protect his wife and unborn child - the two people he loved most in the world - and that motivation she understood completely. After all, hadn’t she already shown the lengths to which she was willing to go in order to help Sherlock?

“I plan to go to rehab, you know.” Sherlock’s quiet words shook her out of her thoughts, startling her into meeting his gaze. He nodded at the question in her eyes. “I’m not going to lie, Molly; ever since this case started I’ve let it drag me down some very dark avenues, made excuses, told myself some pretty lies...but none of you believed them, thank goodness. Well, except Janine, but she and I are good now; she sold her lies to the tabloids to get back at me, and made a pretty penny in the bargain. I can’t exactly say we’re even, but we’re good, so at least there’s that.”

Molly let him say his piece without interruption. “That’s good, Sherlock. Really good. And I’m happy for you, so happy that you’re willing to admit you have a problem and have plans to deal with it. So maybe...maybe we should revisit your feelings for me after that, yes?”

She made as if to rise but he tightened his grip on her hand. “No,” he said petulantly. “I don’t want to put it aside. I’ve been putting it aside for far too long. Kiss me.”

The request - no, demand - was so utterly unexpected that Molly simply gaped at him for a long moment before saying, “Wh-what?”

“Kiss me,” he repeated impatiently. 

“Why?”

Instead of answering he reached up, cradling her head in his hands, and pulled her down before she could protest. Their lips were mere inches apart when he said it again, his voice low and intense. “Kiss me.”

She did.

The kiss was soft, tender, everything a first kiss should be. In a word - perfect. When it ended, Sherlock said, “Molly, I told you once that you’d always counted and that I’d always trusted you. Never doubt that - and never doubt how very much I...care about you.”

“I won’t,” she promised when she’d caught her breath a bit. She smiled, leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “But I think that’s enough excitement for today. You need your rest; get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning. And I don’t want to hear how sleep is boring,” she added when he opened his mouth on an obvious protest.

He subsided sulkily. “But it is.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Unless you want to sleep down here tonight? In case I need anything? Plenty of room for two.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, Sherlock. Not when you’re still recovering from a gunshot wound. Ask me again when you’re fully recuperated.”

“Fine,” he huffed, in full-on sulk mode.

Molly was used to that reaction and just grinned as she stood up. “Good-night, Sherlock,” she said as he settled onto his back, noting the slight wince he tried to hide. 

Or was he trying to hide it? She bit back an exasperated huff as she caught him side-eyeing her, as if to gauge her reaction. “Good night, Sherlock,” she said firmly, then turned and walked quickly out of the room before he could try any more nonsense.

But oh, how she wanted to stay.


	6. A Man, A Plan

“This is never going to work.”

“Not with that attitude it won’t.”

John turned to face his overly-cheerful best friend. “How is this going to work?” he demanded, waving an arm at the other three people in the room. “Drugging everyone to steal Mycroft’s laptop? On Christmas? You want to drug your own parents and brother - not that I’m all that bothered about Mycroft, mind - and then give his computer to Magnussen? What exactly will that accomplish?”

“It’ll get us into Appledore,” Sherlock replied crisply. “I’ll pretend to make a deal - the contents of Mycroft’s computer in exchange for Mary’s safety.”

“And what are Mary and I supposed to be doing while all this is going on?” Molly asked, somewhat apprehensively. “Surely you don’t mean to drug us as well!”

“I should, it would certainly keep you both out of trouble,” Sherlock replied with a cocky grin. The grin faded as Molly gave him what both John and Mary called ‘the look’. “You and Mary are the contingency plan,” he said, with what sounded like a great deal of reluctance. “John and I will be wearing wires…”

“Oh, will we?” John raised his eyebrows in a skeptical manner. “So NSY can listen in?”

“No, so Mary and Molly can,” was Sherlock’s impatient reply. “Do keep up, John. If we brought Lestrade or the Met in on us it would be an utter disaster. I’m sure neither you nor Mary want the police to learn about her less-than-virtuous past at this point in time!”

“If it would keep my baby and my husband safe, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Mary replied quietly. Sherlock blinked at her, gave a brief nod, and turned away as John embraced her. “It’s what I should have done in the first place; it’s what I should do now, or after the baby’s born…”

“Not an option,” Sherlock interrupted crisply. “So. The plan. I’ve had Wiggins calculate the doses, he’ll stay at the house to monitor my parents and Mycroft, then take something himself when they start showing signs of coming round, so he’ll have an alibi. Not a very good one, of course, since Mycroft will immediately deduce what’s happened, but he’ll have plausible deniability and that’s all he’ll need.”

“Plus Mycroft will be too busy worrying about you to be angry at Billy,” Molly put in, still looking entirely unhappy. “I just wish -- are you sure this is the only way?”

“The only way to get into Appledore, yes.” Sherlock sounded and looked confident and for once she couldn’t tell if he was just putting up a front or if he actually believed this insane plan would work. “Once we’re in, we’ll trade the laptop for whatever evidence Magnussen has against Mary and take our leave. He’ll be sending a helicopter,” he added offhandedly, as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “Which means Molly and Mary have to already be in place. No one will wonder at Molly not being there, but John, you’ll have to concoct some reasonable excuse for Mary’s absence. Something pregnancy related but not so bad that they’ll wonder why you didn’t stay home with her.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, got it. No water breaking or contractions.” He smiled tenderly at Mary’s troubled face. “Migraine’s probably out as well. Any thoughts, love?”

“Mmm, I’m thinking travel discomfort. Leg cramps, backache...and stubbornness,” she added, finally relenting and giving him the smile he clearly wanted to see. “I insist on you going, John Watson, I’ll just be lying around feeling grouchy and there’s no point in us both missing Christmas dinner.”

Sherlock nodded approvingly. “Excellent. And as I said no one will wonder about Molly as none of my family are aware of our--that we’re…” He stumbled to a verbal halt, giving Molly a beseeching look as Mary broke into a wide grin and John gaped.

Molly could do nothing but blush and shake her head, her mind completely blanking on a way to salvage Sherlock’s verbal faux pas.

“Oh my god, are you two sleeping together?” Mary asked, still shaking with mirth. “You are, aren’t you!”

Molly knew her deepening blush was all the answer the Watson’s needed, and she shot Sherlock an irritated glare from under her eyelashes as Mary plied her with teasing questions and John tried to wrap his mind around what he’d just discovered. 

As quickly as her irritation rose up, it vanished as Molly saw the expression on Sherlock’s face. Both Watsons were facing her, and if she hadn’t glanced up she would have missed it -- the relieved grin followed swiftly by a furrowed brow.

He’d done it on purpose. He’d deliberately outed their new relationship to his two best friends in order to give them something else to focus on, at least for a little while. To try to defuse the tension of the Magnussen situation. She wished he’d asked her before doing so, but she understood, and decided to let it go, at least for now.

Later, however, she would sit him down and have a Very Serious Talk about relationship boundaries. Maybe make up a list entitled ‘Good’ and ‘Not Good’.

But for now, she endured the good-natured teasing and well-wishes.

All too soon it would be Christmas, and the plan would be set into motion for good or ill.


	7. Execution

In Mary’s experience, things rarely went flawlessly. Even when you thought you had every contingency covered, there was always a wild card factor, something you couldn’t predict. A spanner in the works.

How was she - how were _any_ of them? - to have been able to predict that Molly Hooper would turn out to be that wild card?

No one. None of them, not even Sherlock, could have made that deduction.  
  
And in the end, weren’t they all glad of it.

**oOo**

The helicopter arrived, right on schedule. The entire Holmes household - Mycroft, his and Sherlock’s parents, Billy Wiggins and one unfortunate neighbor who’d dropped by to have a quick Christmas toast with the family - were all unconscious. John and Sherlock were wired, with Mary and Molly placed (or so they thought) exactly where they’d all agreed they would wait: Mary in a copse of trees with a sniper rifle and Sat phone and a very, very fast getaway vehicle; Molly in another vehicle on the opposite side of the property with the same props as Mary. Except the sniper rifle and (so they also believed) the unborn baby.

Both women listened intently and in growing horror as it became obvious that Magnussen had no physical files to trade for Mycroft’s laptop. His dismissive laughter, his taunting of John, his clear, cold-blooded glee at Sherlock’s misapprehension of the situation, all of it came through in painful clarity via the wires the men wore under their shirts. When Magnussen began flicking John on the face, Mary could be seen to compress her lips and finger the trigger on her weapon, whereas when Sherlock announced that he was a high-functioning sociopath...Molly was no longer sitting in her vehicle waiting to call in the cavalry.

As Sherlock raised John’s purloined pistol in his hand, ready to rid the world of Magnussen even at the cost of his own freedom, silently begging Molly to forgive him, two things happened almost simultaneously: the sound of approaching helicopters _whump-whump-whumped_ in the background, and Charles Augustus Magnussen dropped dead to the ground, a bullet hole neatly centered in the middle of his forehead.

**oOo**

“I had to do it.”

Molly - Molly Hooper - sounded utterly calm and collected. Detached, almost. Almost, but not quite. There was the slightest tremor in her voice, the slightest shaking of her hands as she clasped them in her lap, but not a single sign of regret in her eyes. Fear - yes, definitely fear, but not fear of her actions or any possible consequences thereof. No, Sherlock knew exactly what she was afraid of.

“You’re not working for Mycroft, so who are you working for?”

Molly shook her head. “No one. I never was, not the way you’re thinking, not like…” She bit her lip and looked down.

“Not like me,” Mary said softly, reaching out the lay a comforting hand on Molly’s. “You weren’t a government agent, you’re not one now, and you’re not a freelancer, either.”

“So what exactly are you, Molly Hooper?” Sherlock asked quietly, his expression giving nothing away.

She let out a shaky breath and looked back up at Sherlock. “My dad used to call me Little Sure-Shot. After Annie Oakley, the American sharpshooter, remember her?” John and Mary both nodded, Sherlock merely looked blank. Molly offered a lopsided smile. “She used to travel around with Buffalo Bill in his Wild West Show. They called her a trick shooter, which she hated, but she could shoot the Ace out of the center of a card or shoot a coin clear through the middle.”

Mary and John traded glances at that, and when they returned their gazes to Molly there was a certain sharpness that hadn’t been there before. Sherlock ignored them, focusing on Molly’s rather rambling explanation. Although he already knew where she was leading, he let her tell it in her own way, her own time. “It’s just a gift, a thing I’ve always been able to do. I won every competition I entered, but I stopped entering them after a while because, well, it just didn’t seem fair. And then the military recruiters started coming round so I gave it up entirely. It wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. Especially after my dad got sick.” She let out a shuddering little sigh. “I decided I wanted to go into medicine, and then a pathology class I took...that was it. I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And killing people was never supposed to be a part of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said softly, once again reaching for Molly’s hand. “I’m sorry I’m the reason you felt you had to take someone’s life…”

“Oh, no!” Molly exclaimed, looking over at the other woman. “Don’t be! I’m not! I mean, well, of course I am, killing’s wrong, but that man - that monster - he deserved it. He wouldn’t ever let you or John or Sherlock live in peace, and he’d use you all to get to Mycroft and...I’m not sorry I did it, not really.” She nodded once, firmly, as if reassuring herself of that fact. “And to be honest, it wasn’t entirely unselfish and noble of me. I wasn’t just protecting you all, I was protecting myself as well. My future.” She unconsciously laid a hand on her stomach, and it all clicked into place.

Sherlock strode over to her, pulling her to her feet and lowering his face to hers for a lingering kiss. “When did you discover you were pregnant?” he asked when the kiss ended.

“Only a few days ago,” Molly admitted, a shy smile lighting up her features. She reached up to brush her fingers along Sherlock’s cheek. “I was going to tell you afterwards. I didn’t want it to affect how things came about today - only of course it did.” Her smile turned rueful. “Thank you for covering for me with Mycroft, by the way. I really don’t want him knowing about my special skill.” She glanced over at Mary and John, who were smiling broadly and gaping in shock, respectively. “I don’t have to ask you all to keep this between us, right?”

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock answered for the others. “Your secret abilities as a sniper are safe with us. Mycroft knows there was someone else here, but he has no idea it was you and it’ll stay that way.” He grinned and suddenly lifted her into his arms. She squealed and laughed as she threw her arms around his neck. “Do see yourselves out, Watsons, the missus and I have some private celebrating to do.” Then he carried her through the kitchen and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The doctored footage from The Six Thatchers was the inspiration I needed to finally finish this thing. Thanks for reading and commenting, hope you liked the ending!


End file.
